evaporated in the primeval excitement of the dance, much like the crowd at a bull ring.
rod and dan ran interference for the girls, ploughing a path through the main gateway and down to their reserved seats in the front row. all four of them were laughing and flushed by the time they were seated, the excitement about them was infectious and the liquor had heightened their sensibilities.
an expectant hum of voices.
'the shangaans!' and the audience craned towards the entrance from which pranced a dozen drummers, their long wooden drums hung on rawhide straps about their necks, they took up stations around the circular earthen stage.
tap, tap. tap, tap from one of the drummers, and silence gripped the amphitheatre.
tap, tap. tap, tap. naked, except for their brief loin cloths, stooped over the drums that they clasped between their knees, they began to lay down the rhythm of the dance. it was a broken, disturbing beat, that jerked and twitched like a severed nerve. a compelling, demanding sound, the pulse of a continent and a people.
then came the dancers, shuffling, row upon row, headdresses dipping and rustling, the animal tail kilts swirling, war rattles at the wrists and ankles, black muscles already oiled with the sweat of excitement, coming in slowly rank upon majestic rank, moving as though the drums were pumping life into them.
a shrill blast on a duiker horn and the ranks whirled like dry leaves in a wind, they fell again into a new pattern, and through the opening in their midst came a single gigantic figure.
'big king!' the name blew like a sigh through the audience, and immediately the drums changed their rhythm. faster, demanding, and the dancers hissed in their throats a sound like storm surf rushing up a stony beach.
big king flung his arms wide, braced on legs like black marble columns, his head thrown back. he sang a single word of command, shrilling it, and in instantaneous response every right knee were brought up to the level of the chest. half a second's pause and then 200 horny bare feet stamped down simultaneously with a crash that shook the amphitheatre to its foundations. the shangaans began to dance, and reality was gone in the moving, charging, swirling, retreating ranks.
once rod tore his eyes from the spectacle. terry steyner was sitting forward on the bench, eyes sparkling, lips slightly parted, completely lost in the erotic turmoil and barbaric splendour of it.
joy and dan had a firm hold on each others' hands, their shoulders and the outside of their thighs were pressed tightly together, and rod was stabbed by a painful thrust of envy.
afterwards, back in the ladies' bar of the club, there was very little conversation but they were all of them tensed up, restless, moved by strange undercurrents and interplays of primitive desires and social restraints.
'well,' said rod at last, 'if i am to get you two ladies back to johannesburg at a decent hour-' dan and joy spoke together.
'don't worry, rod, i'll-' 'dan says he will-' then they stopped and grinned at each other sheepishly.
'i take it that dan has suddenly remembered that he has to go to johannesburg this evening also, and he has offered to give you a lift?' asked rod dryly, and they laughed in confirmation.
'it looks as though we are on our own, mrs. steyner.' rod turned to 'i'll trust you,' said terry.
'if you do that, you're crazy,' said dan.
outside the maserati, darkness was falling swiftly. the horizon blending into the black sky, isolated lights winking at them out of the surrounding veld.
rod switched on the headlights, and the instrument panel glowed softly, turning the interior into a warm secluded place, isolating them from the world. the wind whispered, and the tyres and the engine hummed a gentle intimate refrain.
terry steyner sat with her legs curled up under her, cuddled into the soft maroon leather of the bucket seat.
she was staring ahead down the path of the headlights, and she seemed withdrawn and yet very close. every few minutes rod would take his eyes from the road and study her profile briefly. he did so again, and this time she met his gaze frankly.
'you realize what is happening?' she asked.
'yes,' he answered as frankly.
'you know how dangerous it could be for you?'
'and you.'
'no, not me. i am invulnerable. i am a hirschfeld but you, it could destroy you.' rod shrugged.
'if we counted the consequences before every action, nobody would do anything.'
'have you thought that i might be a spoiled little rich girl amusing myself? i might do this all the time.'
'you might,' rod agreed. they were silent for a long while, then terry spoke again.
'rod?' she used his given name for the first time.
'yes?'
'i don't, you know, i really don't.'
'i guessed that.' 'thank you.' she opened her bag. 'i need a cigarette. i feel as though i'm standing poised on the edge of a cliff and i've got this terrible compulsion to hurl myself over the edge.'
'light me one, terry.'*.
'you need one also?
'badly.' they smoked in silence again, both of them staring ahead, then terry rolled down the window and flicked the cigarette butt away.
'you've got the job, you know.' all day she had wanted to tell him, it had been bubbling inside her. watching his face, she saw his lips stiffen, his eyes crease into slits.
'did you hear me?' she asked at last, and he braked the maserati, swinging it off onto the shoulder of the road. he pulled on the hand brake and turned to face her.
'terry, what did you say?' 'i said, you've got the job.'
'what job?' he demanded harshly.
'pops signed the instruction this morning. you'll receive it on monday. you're the new general manager of the sander ditch.' she wanted to go on and say and i got it for you. i made pops give it to you.
i never will, she promised, i will never spoil it for him.
he must believe he won it fairly, not as my gift.
it was saturday night, the big night in dump city.
the blaauberg mine was the oldest producer on the kitchenerville field.
there were sections of its property which had been worked out completely, and the old waste dumps were now abandoned and overgrown.
among the scrub and head- high weed in the valleys between these man-made hills had grown up a shanty town. dump city, the inhabitants had named it. the buildings were made of discarded galvanized iron sheets and flattened oil drums, there was no sanitation or running water.
remote from the main roads, the residential communities of the neighbouring mines or the town of kitchenerville, hidden among the dumps, accessible only to a man on foot, never visited by members of the south african constabulary, it was ideally suited to the purposes for which its 300 permanent inhabitants had chosen it.
every one of the shacks was a shebeen, a clip joint where watered liquor was sold at inflated prices, where dagga*
marijuana.
was freely obtainable and where men from the surrounding mines gathered to carouse.
they came not so much for the liquor. each of the mine hostels had a bar where a full range of liquor was on sale at club prices. very few of them came for the dagga. there was little addiction amongst these well-fed, hard-worked and contented men. what they came for were the women.
five mines in the area, each employing ten or twelve thousand men.
here at dump city were 200 women, the only available women within twenty miles. it was not necessary for the young ladies of dump city to solicit custom, even the fat, the withered, the toothless, could behave like queens.
big king came down the path that skirted the mine dump. with him were two dozen of his fellow tribesmen, big shangaans wearing their regalia, carrying their fighting sticks and still tensed up from the dancing.
they came at a trot, big king leading them. they were singing, not the gentle planting or courting melodies, not the work chant nor the song of welcome.
they were singing the fighting songs, those their forefathers had sung when they carried the spear in search of cattle and slaves. the driving inflammatory rhythm, the fiercely patriotic words wrought so mightily on the delicate susceptibilities of the average shangaan that the company had found it necessary to ban the singing of these songs.
a like a scot hearing' the pipes, when a shangaan began singing these warlike chants, he was ready for violence.
the song ended as big king led them down to the nearest shanty, and pushed aside the sacking that acted as a door. he stooped through the opening, and his comrades crowded in behind him.
a brittle electric silence fell on the large room. the air was so thick with smoke, and the light from the suspended hurricane lamps so feeble, that it was impossible to see the far wall. the room was filled with men, forty or fifty of them, the smell of humanity
